


Turn of a Friendly Card

by GreenWoman



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenWoman/pseuds/GreenWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With thanks and apologies to Walter Mirisch, John Watson, Trilogy Productions, CBS, and The Alan Parsons Project, and proceeding under the assumption that forgiveness is easier to ask than permission....</p>
<p>This story takes place following "Sins of the Past."  I dedicate it with thanks to Dina, for her unflagging encouragement, and to Kathy, for her patience and insistence on giving it a home; and, as is every Ezra tale I write, to Amy.</p>
<p>10/12/2000</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn of a Friendly Card

There are unsmiling faces in fetters and chains  
On a wheel of perpetual motion  
Who belong to all races and answer all names  
With no show of an outward emotion

And they think it will make their lives easier  
For God knows up till now it's been hard  
But the game never ends when your whole world depends  
On the turn of a friendly card

No the game never ends when your whole world depends  
On the turn of a friendly card

THE TURN OF A FRIENDLY CARD ~ Alan Parsons Project

~~~

"You reread that letter one more time, Ezra, and it's gonna fall to pieces."

Ezra started and automatically made as if to tuck the letter out of sight, caught himself, and instead folded it slowly and deliberately and casually slipped it into the inside pocket of his vest.

"And your concern would be...?" he asked coolly.

"Just remarking." The low rumble of Josiah's voice was conciliatory. "It ain't usual for you to reread Maude's letters like that. Everything all right by her?"

"My mother is quite well."

"Glad to hear it. So, who's this fella, Jackson Gallatoire?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Gallatoire. Fella your ma wrote you about? Name's familiar ... ain't he one of her ex-husbands?"

"I wouldn't know," Ezra said icily. "I don't have quite the eye you seem to, for reading other people's papers."

Josiah put his hands up in a gesture of innocence. "Didn't go reading your mail, Ezra. The name just caught my eye, is all. Meant no harm." Josiah seemed genuinely apologetic, but still curious. "Everything all right?" he asked again.

"Fine," Ezra said tersely. "My mother doesn't tolerate things being less than fine." He stood, poured the remains of his coffee out into the dusty street, turned and walked away. Josiah stared after him, his great brow drawn down over concerned eyes.

"Josiah?"

Buck stood in the saloon door, his face a mirror expression of Josiah's own, and the worry in his voice an echo of the bigger man's. Together they watched Ezra cross the street and disappear around the corner. "Something wrong?"

"Don't rightly know, Brother Buck. But I suspect so."

Buck nodded sadly. "Seems things ain't never all right for that boy when his mama's involved."

~~~

Ezra closed his pocket watch. Still two hours before the arrival of the stage, if it was on time. He reached for the copy of "Innocents Abroad" that sat on the dresser next to his rocking chair, but was unable to interest himself in Twain's accounts of his travels. Finally he put the book aside and slipped his hand inside his vest. Once again he withdrew the letter, unfolded and stared at it, not really reading. He'd already memorized the words.

Hotel Fontaine  
Front Street and Market Avenue  
St. Louis, Missouri

May 25th

Dearest Ezra,

How are you? I've not heard from you since I left Four Corners, and was somewhat concerned that you might still be angry with me after our little territorial dispute. I hope you understand that I only acted out of concern for your best interests, as I have always done. I choose to assume that your duties as a peacemaker, and not some lingering ill will towards me, have been the reason for your failure to keep in touch.

By coincidence, I am writing you about that very piece of property that I rescued from foreclosure. As you surely have observed, Inez has followed my instructions and brought the place to a prosperity which has made it attractive to a number of investors. I have selected a gentleman in Silver City to be the new owner, and have dispatched our old friend Jackson Gallatoire to negotiate and close the sale. It happens that he will be passing through Four Corners on his journey. I trust that you will make him welcome and take this wonderful opportunity to avail yourself of a game with a player worthy of your talents.

Take care of yourself, darling, and I hope to hear from you soon.

Your loving mother,  
Maude

Jackson Gallatoire. Dear lord.

Absently, Ezra folded the letter and replaced it in his vest pocket. His mind was traveling on its own, into the past, into times that Ezra generally preferred not to think about.

He'd learned much from Jackson Gallatoire, in those days when he was a young boy and Gallatoire had been stepfather, mentor, teacher ... and tormentor. Ezra remembered long nights of lessons; shuffling, sleight-of-hand, how to mark a deck with tiny pinholes in the corners of each card and how to find those pinholes with sensitive fingers, how to slip a card or two into a sleeve or a shirt or a boot and slip them back out again when needed. And for those times when subterfuge wasn't possible, Gallatoire had taught Ezra how to hold in his head the values of the cards played and calculate which cards must be left, and what the odds were that the ones he needed would come into his hands at any given moment.

There had been nights of being tested too, when Gallatoire and Maude had set Ezra up in games against much older men who thought it was amusing to play a ten- or twelve- or fifteen-year-old, assuming they would win. If they did, Ezra lost; supper, or a warm bed at night, or both. And success didn't guarantee any reward for a young boy who might not be able to claim his winnings from older, larger men carrying guns. Gallatoire and Maude, often otherwise engaged, could not always be counted on for help. 

Memories ... dodging between tall dark shapes with grabbing hands and foul breath ... flinging his small weight against heavy back doors ... running down dark alleys, feet pounding through dust or mud. The terrible things that happened those times that he hadn't gotten away, the far worse things that happened when he had come home empty-handed, and the worse things of all, when he came home to find his mother gone and only Jackson Gallatoire waiting for him.

Ezra shook his head, clearing the phantasms of long ago from behind his eyes. Pain.... He looked down and realized he'd been holding his diamond-shaped watch fob in his hand. His clenched fist had forced the sharp silver points through the skin of his palm. *Damn.* He lifted his hand to his mouth and licked the blood from the palm, and with that taste the nightmares flickered once more across the back of his mind. *Damn,* he whispered again, then got to his feet and went to the washstand. The tepid water soothed neither his cuts nor his nerves, and he dropped the towel beside the basin and checked his watch again. Thirty minutes now. Perhaps he'd best go have some coffee.

~~~

The clatter of ironclad wheels and horseshoes throwing up the dirt and small pebbles in the road alerted the town that the stage had arrived in Four Corners. The coach rattled around the corner and weary horses dropped to a trot for the last few yards of the journey, then shuffled to a halt, blowing and stomping their feet. The driver set the brake, swung down from the box and walked back to the side of the stage, opened the door, and began to hand out the passengers into the dusty street.

Ezra rose to his feet and straightened his tie and coat, then leaned back against the clapboard facade of the hotel with a casual air deliberately assumed for the benefit of Buck and Josiah, who watched from across the street. He hoped they could not see the tension he sought to hide with his posture, and trained his eyes on the coach door as the passengers straggled out of the hot, close coach box, looking dusty, bedraggled, slightly dazed and much the worse for wear. 

All except one. Ezra felt his gut clench as Jackson Gallatoire stepped out of the coach.

Gallatoire was impeccable, as if he'd just spent a relaxing half hour of teatime in someone's drawing room instead of eight hours in a rocking, stuffy, filthy stagecoach elbow-to-elbow with five other people. His coat was unwrinkled, his vest smooth and only lightly stained by dirt and perspiration, his trousers somehow still creased and his shoes undulled by dust. With a genteel air he tugged pale beige gloves from his hands and tucked them in his wainscot, then pulled an expansive white handkerchief from his vest pocket and dabbed delicately at his forehead with it, folded it precisely and returned it to the pocket.

Ezra looked at the handkerchief and the hands folding it and fought down the bile rising in his throat. A handkerchief, folded just so by those pale hands, wrapped and tied tight around....

He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. "Mr. Gallatoire," he said.

The man looked up and smiled a smile that almost broke Ezra's control over his gag reflex.

"Why, Ezra, my boy! Your mother told me to expect you. How kind of you to meet the stage." He grinned, the smile feral and revolting, and extended his hand. Ezra could not bring himself to take it, and tipped his hat instead.

"Mother told me you'd be passing through," he said, unable to refrain from placing some small emphasis on the expected brevity of Gallatoire's stay in town. That, and the lack of a handshake, were not lost on the man, and he frowned slightly.

"How kind of her to let you know I was coming." He threw a condescending glance up and down the street. "I now understand her concern for your welfare, however. Ezra, my boy, what on earth are you doing in this godforsaken hamlet? I should hate to think that your mother and I invested so much in your training, only to have you make a place like this your permanent address. Surely it must have more to offer than meets the eye."

"Mr. Gallatoire, one of the most important things I learned from you is that a pleasing exterior does not guarantee content of worth. It stands to reason that the reverse must also, upon occasion, be true."

Gallatoire raised an eyebrow, but left the remark unanswered. He glanced at the hotel doors. "I must secure a room for this evening, and then I have some calls to make. Can you direct me to the newspaper office?"

Ezra's instincts whispered "trouble." *Why on earth would he need to visit the Clairon?* But he cleared his throat and nodded. "It's directly across the street and down a block. Mrs. Travis is the owner."

"Ah yes, so I've been told. I understand that she's quite ... attractive." Gallatoire's face twisted into a subtle leer that chilled Ezra. Revolted, he abandoned subtly.

"Perhaps. Although that should matter little to a man of your age."

Gallatoire scowled. "Your mother warned me that these crude surroundings had been an ill influence upon you. Perhaps you would be well served to pass a bit of time with someone of a more civilized bearing than your usual company. Shall we meet for dinner?"

"I don't think so," Ezra replied casually, offering no explanation or apology. "However, I would be glad to join you for a friendly game of cards afterward. Say, the Standish Tavern? At nine?"

Gallatoire's gray eyes glinted coldly, in marked contrast to his genial face, and his mouth turned up beneath the carefully trimmed mustache in a feral grin. But his tone was friendly, offering no insight into the man's true regard of his stepson.

"Nine it is, my boy. I look forward to seeing how much you remember, of all that I labored so long to teach you."

"I remember everything," replied Ezra coolly. He tipped his hat once again, and turned his back on Gallatoire.

~~~

Ezra spent most of the afternoon in his room, preparing for the game. Knowing full well that marked cards would not come into play that evening, and that he would have minimal opportunity to use or benefit by sleight of hand without detection, he instead reviewed and rehearsed over and over again the rituals of memory and mathematical probability. Going up against the man who had educated him in his trade left him little option but to abandon trickery and depend upon his wits to best his teacher.

To ease his eyes, he turned his gaze out the window from time to time. His angle of vision allowed him to see down most of Main Street; specifically visible to him was the block upon which were situated the hotel and the offices of The Clarion. Ezra watched for and noted Gallatoire's visit to the latter, and abandoned his practice for a short time, curious and more than a little uneasy about the nature of his stepfather's business with the owner of Four Corners' newspaper. The visit did not take long, and Ezra observed Mary Travis leave the office shortly after Gallatoire did. She seemed distressed, and the gambler's interest piqued further as he watched her stride swiftly down the boardwalk toward the telegraph office. 

Chris Larabee seemed to notice as well, and he crossed the street and put a hand out to Mary. She stopped and short words were exchanged, Mary straightened and stalked away, and Larabee was left alone on the boardwalk looking after her. Ezra smiled, but was surprised a moment later to see Vin Tanner step out of the mercantile, tip his hat and seem to offer a pleasantry, only to step back in a posture of surprised apology as a sharp remark from the lady rebuffed him.

*Curious,* Ezra mused. The exchange between Mary Travis and Chris Larabee had been an amusement, not a surprise; the two were like flint and steel. But it was unusual to see Mary treat Vin Tanner with anything less than solicitous affection. Something had disturbed the woman; perhaps even frightened her ... and Ezra had no difficulty putting a name to the source of the trouble.

Gallatoire.

He watched as Mary Travis disappeared into the telegraph office, and went back to working the cards. More than concentration lay behind his frown.

~~~

The repeating clock on the saloon wall chimed 1:50 am. Ezra, tired but alert, eyes bright and mind focused on the cards in his hand, allowed the part of him that was always conscious of everything going on around him to note the time without distracting his attention from the game. He was also aware of the few people still in the bar at this late hour. One of them was the bartender, leaning heavily on the back bar and watching the clock with a weary eye, and the other was Josiah, the sole remaining spectator of the battle which had raged back and forth across the green baize for almost five hours

The conflict had seemed evenly matched from the very beginning, when Gallatoire had joined Ezra at the small table in the corner and each had opened an unused deck of cards brought out from behind the bar. With the condescending manner that was his natural attitude, Gallatoire had offered Ezra the first deal, and Ezra was not too proud to take it. It had seemed little advantage at first, as neither he nor Gallatoire had been able to achieve an advantage over the other throughout much of the evening. In fact, Ezra had been pressed to hold his own. Bue he hid it well in the face of his opponent's seemingly casual and unconcerned manner. Ezra had been undecided as to the genuineness of Gallatoire's relaxed attitude, but was careful not to betray his uncertainty and affected a casual air of his own, one he'd perfected and used to his advantage before. 

In a way, he had enjoyed the evening. It was good to be play again against an opponent as talented as Gallatoire. It had been far too long since Ezra had faced someone who presented a serious challenge to him. Perhaps his mother had been right ... too long in this small town had dulled his edge. If his opponent had been anyone else, it would have been the most enjoyable evening Ezra had had in a long time.

But his opponent was Gallatoire. And as the game and the night moved on, an inner fatigue of nerves and confidence slowly took its toll on Ezra. Ghosts held powers that time and travel had not dispersed or dissipated. With each movement of those pale hands, with each flourish of that fine linen handkerchief, Ezra's memories stirred and woke and walked behind his eyes. And the hurt and the fear that walked with the ghosts brought anger to him, and he had played harder and more aggressively in the last hour, with slow but applied determination finally achieving an advantage that seemed to place a few cracks in Gallatoire's dismissive air.

Now the pot was significant, and Ezra held a hand that he felt would win it. The money had ceased to have meaning long ago. It was the *winning* ... the defeat of this bastard who had once had such control over him and who had used it in such unforgivable fashion, that had come to mean everything to Ezra. He ran again through his mind the cards that he held, the cards that he'd seen laid down, the cards that must be left and the cards that might be in his opponent's hand. He thought of the horrors of the past, and looked carefully at Gallatoire's face, and made a decision.

The bills and coins in neat stacks before him were pushed forward.

"Raise," he said.

Gallatoire frowned, more disease showing in his face than he intended to display.

"I thought I taught you not to play so rashly, young man," he said.

"I'm not playing rashly," answered Ezra, with a calculated grin of satisfaction.

"Well, perhaps I have. I fear I must fold. Good job, my boy ... even if it is at my expense."

Gallatoire fanned his cards upon the table, face up. A losing hand, but not one that a skilled player as Gallatoire would ordinarily have laid down so easily.

Ezra blinked. It was unexpected. The pot was sizeable; nothing that Ezra could not cover without returning to his hotel room and digging into his reserves, had it been necessary, but surely approaching the limits of what a traveling man would be carrying. Ezra had counted upon that, hoping that if he pushed his opponent, the man would be forced to wager that which Ezra wanted more than his money ... that which Ezra suspected Maude's letter had implied was his for the reclamation, if he was still skilled enough to do so. The deed to the Standish Tavern and, with his successful recapture of it, redemption in his mother's eyes.

But capitulation had come much sooner than anticipated. *Why?* Was Gallatoire merely tired, or more drunk than he appeared? Did he suspect, as Ezra did, that no salvation lay in the stack of unused cards? 

Or....

Ezra swore silently, as his mind began to work it through.

Gallatoire was merely playing a role in which Maude had cast him. She had not abandoned her efforts to lure him away from the tentative foothold he had in this small town, but she had finally come to realize that she could not entice or entrap him if the silence which lay between them remained unbroken. So she had arranged a deception, and enlisted the man that Ezra hated most in the world to assist her in it. This whole game was merely an elaborate ruse by which she could return the saloon to her son, win back his affections and the property, and then embark upon another plan to further manipulate his life to her own purposes. The dishonor lay not only in that she ... that they ... believed he would be taken in, but worse, that Gallatoire had been so certain of it that he had allowed himself such a cavalier air in playing his role. 

"Ezra...." Gallatoire leaned back in his chair, a smug smile upon his face. Not the smile of a man distressed at the loss of a large pot in a close game. Ezra fumed, but kept his temper hidden.

"Why, sir, I believe I have bested you," he said smoothly as he lay his own winning hand upon the table. He burned with shame, but schooled his face into an expression of naive triumph and waited for the game to play out, even as he set his mind to conjuring a plan of his own.

"So you have," nodded his opponent. "I would not have thought it possible. And," he forced a cough laden with artifice, "I fear that I find myself at a disadvantage. I cannot make good upon my wager in cash. However," and he coughed again, "I can offer you something you may find more attractive." Gallatoire reached inside his vest, pulled out a small leather portfolio, and made a show of untying the string that held it closed. From within he produced a sheaf of folded papers and began to riffle through them.

Ezra watched, motionless in cold contemplation as the deception played out. Gallatoire mistook his attentiveness for greed and, with a theatrical flourish, pulled a folded piece of paper from the bundle and laid it on the table.

"I offer you the deed to the Standish Tavern," he pronounced.

In his theatricality, however, another folded document which had rested next to the first followed it out and down onto the baize. Gallatoire reached for it, but Ezra was faster. He lay his hand over both documents, drew them to his side of the table, and unfolded them. One, as expected, was the deed to the saloon that had once belonged to Ezra. The other sent Ezra's cold anger into white-hot fury, and his mind to desperate reckoning.

It was a lien, claiming default on a loan to The Clarion newspaper.

The odd scene that he had witnessed taking place on the boardwalk that afternoon was suddenly, stunningly clear. That weasel Frank Wheeler must have held the paper on the Clarion from an old debt incurred by Stephen Travis. In consorting with him during their ruse to reveal his role in Travis' murder, Maude had managed to get her hands on it, and was now intending to sell the paper out from under the woman who had struggled since her husband's death to keep his dream alive.

Gallatoire's pale hands reached for the two documents which lay on the table. "Forgive my clumsiness," he said as he made as if to withdraw the one that displayed the name of the newspaper. Ezra stopped him with his own hand. There was a piece of the puzzle still missing ... something not yet understood was still in play.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "but a gentleman does not wager that which he does not have. You are at the disadvantage here, Mr. Gallatoire, and it seems only fair that I should be allowed my choice in the satisfaction of this debt." With deliberate care he laid claim to the document that Gallatoire had mislaid upon the table.

"But Ezra," Gallatoire objected, "that's merely the paper on that dying rag of a newspaper. It's worthless ... useless to you. Whereas the saloon--"

"Is worth a great deal?" finished Ezra. "Then why are you so reluctant to unload the Clarion on me?"

"Ain't the paper he wants."

Gallatoire and Ezra both turned in their chairs to face the speaker. Josiah turned his whiskey bottle upside down and looked ruefully at the few drops that fell into the dirty tumbler on the bar before he lifted it to his lips and savored the final sip. "It's the printing press," he finally said. "I was bringing in some firewood for Mary yesterday, and heard him telling her. Maude owns it all, but the press is worth almost twice the building it's settin' in. Heard him tell Mary they're fixin' to sell it to a fellow up in Boneyard Creek."

The picture was finally complete. The choice was clear and Ezra made it without hesitation.

"You know, when my mother took the saloon from me," he said, "she explained that the point of purchasing a business was to bring it to profitability and resell it. If I heeded her counsel, I'd be foolish to choose the Standish Tavern when the Clarion has such potential."

"But Ezra!" Gallatoire was nonplussed. "You can't ... we've already ... your mother will be--"

"Disappointed? No doubt." Ezra smiled coolly as he slipped the record of debt into his vest pocket. "But then, some things never change."

"You'll never be able to sell that press," Gallatoire asserted, angry now. "I'll telegraph Boneyard Creek today, and tell the buyer that the machine is faulty. You'll be stuck in this filthy little backwater, with no family, no connections, and a dying business. After all your mother and I taught you, to see you come to this is more than disappointing. But certainly no surprise."

"Oh, I've come out of this rather well, it seems to me," replied Ezra as he got to his feet. "I've bested you, my teacher, in the game that you taught me, and I've slipped the noose my mother meant to drop 'round my neck. Who knows ... since I've won out over two of the best in the business, perhaps the art of conning has lost its challenge for me. Perhaps I should undertake becoming a respectable businessman. After all, I can already do better at what you do than you can, and I just might accomplish something that you could never hope to achieve." He walked to the door and paused there, retrieved his hat from the row of pegs and settled it on his head, and looked back at Gallatoire.

"Good evening, sir," he said. "I shan't see you off in the morning, as I shall be busy inspecting my new holdings. Please offer my respects to my mother when next you see her. Josiah, might I have a word with you?" He lifted a finger to his hat brim and stepped out into the early morning darkness.

Josiah looked at the bartender and grinned.

"I think the gentleman here could use another drink, Tim," he said over his shoulder as he stepped toward the door. "Put it on Ezra's tab; I'm sure he won't mind. But Tim..." he whispered in a voice meant to be overheard, "... don't make it the good stuff."

~~~

"Mr. Standish!"

Ezra stopped just outside the saloon doors and blinked in the bright morning sun. "Why, good afternoon, Mrs. Travis. What may I do for you?"

She smiled up at him, and Ezra wondered at the expression on her face. He had a fleeting moment of unease; had Josiah somehow failed to carry out his instructions? Send a fool on a fool's errand, he thought to himself, and see what happens....

But Mary was smiling at him, and that was worth something.

"You know, Mr. Standish, I owe you a debt of gratitude," she said.

"Oh?" Ezra frowned. Josiah had had strict instructions on what to say, but he'd obviously departed from the script. "Whatever for?" he asked carefully.

"Why, for saving the Clarion, of course," she said brightly. 

Ezra flushed red. Josiah, you will pay for this. "I'm not certain I understand, Mrs. Travis. Saved the paper from what?"

"Repossession. Oh, Josiah told me everything," she said warmly, placing one hand on his arm. "About how he won the lien from Jackson Gallatoire in a poker game last night. How he never could have done it if he hadn't learned so much from you about playing poker. You must be an amazing teacher."

"Oh, I am," he assured her in an unsteady voice, trying to keep his footing on suddenly shaky ground.

"That's exactly what Josiah said!" Mary agreed brightly. "But I thought it was odd that you didn't play Mr. Gallatoire. Seeing as how he's your mother's friend."

Something in her tone caught Ezra's ear. He studied her face carefully, but it betrayed nothing apart from genuine gratitude.

"I was ... ah, feeling a bit under the weather last night," he said honestly.

"I see. Well, I certainly hope you're feeling better this morning."

"Oh, I am," he assured her. "Early bedtime, slept well."

"Ah. Well, I suppose that two in the morning is an early bedtime for you." Mary smiled, and Ezra had the odd sensation of a trap closing around him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh ... well, you see, I didn't sleep well last night myself. I was worried about the paper, you understand." 

"I do."

"I was up most of the night."

"Were you?" Ezra was losing his place in this odd conversation.

"Yes. And I had just poured myself a cup of tea and looked out the window when I saw you leaving the saloon. At two in the morning."

"Indeed? Well, that is early for me, as you said." He cleared his throat; retreat seemed the best response. "Ah, if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Travis, I've not yet had my morning coffee." And I certainly need some now, he thought.

"Oh, of course. I didn't mean to keep you." She blinked innocently.

Ezra relaxed. "It's quite all right. Good morning," he said, and raised a finger to his hat brim.

"There's just one thing, Mr. Standish."

Ezra froze, hand in the air. Dear lord, now what?

"Just this." Before Ezra had time to flinch away, he felt Mary's hand tighten on his arm as she stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss lightly on his cheek.

"What--?" He stood wordless, in shock.

"Nothing. In payment, for nothing. I'm sure you understand." One more sweet smile flew his way. "Good day, Mr. Standish." Mary turned then and walked away without a backward glance.

" 'Of every noble work the silent part is best.' John Bartlett." 

Ezra spun about in time to see Josiah grin at him, and disappear into the darkened saloon.

"How would I know?" he muttered irritably to himself. But he looked down the street after Mary, enjoying the spring of her step and the warmth of the manner with which she greeted Chris and Vin.

Ah well. What's done is done. And at least I still don't have an honest job.

-30-


End file.
